Nine Lives
by Lowlands Girl
Summary: [Pre DH] Cats have nine lives, but humans are only given one. Ginny, alone at the Burrow, muses on this.


**Nine Lives**  
_by_ The Eighth Weasley

**Nine Lives**

A cat has nine lives, Ginny thought as Crookshanks leapt from the roof of the garden shed to the apple tree. Her eyes followed first his confident progress, then that of a few apples he'd disturbed. She watched them fall to the ground. She didn't look at the gate, though, because she knew no one was coming.

No one would be coming through that gate for a long time.

Ginny fetched the fallen apples while Crookshanks prowled around the apple tree. At one point a squirrel caught his interest and he stalked it, tail twitching. Then without warning he pounced; but the squirrel darted out of the way in time, and Crookshanks fell out of the tree.

There was a moment of panic as Crookshanks fell, but in that moment the cat twisted his body around so he was right-side up; he landed solidly on his feet, shook himself, and went trotting off around the garden in search of something else to stalk.

Ginny turned round, apples in hand, and went back into the house. She didn't look at the gate.

Only she used it now. Mum and Dad were long gone; all her brothers except two had died in the war, and of the two living, one was no longer able to leave the homey room at St. Mungo's, and the other was no longer welcome here.

The war had taken its toll on her generation, a far greater toll than it should have been allowed to take. As Ginny put the kettle on for a cup of tea, wondering which of her projects she should work on that evening, she caught a glimpse of Crookshanks again and felt a catch in her throat. She shouldn't have inherited him. She loved Crookshanks mightily, and it was clear that the cat loved the Burrow, but Ginny would rather that Hermione was still around.

Catching sight of Crookshanks meant catching sight of the gate, closed and locked against the few remaining dangers.

She let herself slide into daydreams, imagining the gate opening and a certain person walking through it like he had so many years ago; but in her dream Harry was not battle-scarred and thin, nor covered in blood, mud, muck, and sweat, nor were his eyes still pleading with the world to stop whatever it was doing. No, in her mind, Harry was whole, healthy, clean-shaven and smiling, perhaps carrying a traveling cloak or a present for her. In her mind, he hadn't been gone for two years with no word, no sign. He hadn't upped and left, leaving her to wonder--

The kettle whistled, loud in the otherwise silent house. Crookshanks shot in through the cat flap as though Summoned: tea-time meant cream-time. Ginny obediently poured him a saucer.

Why did cats have nine lives, and not humans? Why were we only gifted with one?

Why did some take the one life they had and not live it for all it was worth?

Ginny shied away from that thought, away from anger and regret and bitterness, and poured water into the pot to warm it. She put the kettle back on to boil again and reached for the jar of tea leaves. Maybe this time her cup would have something good to say.

Maybe it would tell her when--if--Harry was coming back. Maybe it would announce the presence of a tall dark stranger... only Harry wasn't a stranger. At least he hadn't been, once, when they were younger and had evil to fight. But then evil had been vanquished, and Harry had vanished.

Ginny poured boiling water over the leaves and let them steep, then drank slowly, thinking firmly about the present and not the past.

The bottom of her cup revealed no premonitions, only soggy leaves that she chucked in the bin where they belonged. The sun was setting now, and the garden was dark, and Crookshanks was curling up on a chair as if to say _This is my place; get your own_, and Ginny stared around the Burrow's living room and wished that it wasn't hers. She sat in what had once been her mother's chair and picked up a piece of parchment.

The house creaked. The ghoul rattled upstairs, but it was a sad, lonely sound. The wind whistled, the fire crackled, Crookshanks snuffled and squeaked. Ginny sighed.

The gate clattered.

Ginny shot bolt upright and stared out at the window, heart thumping. The gate was opening.

Humans might not have nine lives. But sometimes, Ginny realized as she started out the door to meet him, they were given second chances.

_fin_


End file.
